


one day

by romanreigning



Series: there will be better days [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Here we go, Mental Health Issues, Teenage AU, hella roman centric, oh boy, sad angsty teenage stuff, semi-happy ending, thats all it is really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10969518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanreigning/pseuds/romanreigning
Summary: the going isn't always easy. in fact, it's worse than anyone ever told them it would be. but they're just trying their best.





	one day

**Author's Note:**

> man. I really overdid this.
> 
> (one day - opshop)

"Remember the times we used to lay on the field in intermediate?" Dean asks.

Roman does.

He remembers how they used to lay side by side, and stare up at the clouds and talk about the future. How sometimes they were so tired from playing rugby or tag on the playground that they didn't have the energy to talk, how they never used to have a care in the world, how the schoolbell never used to feel like a shot through the heart how they used to be-

"Yeah," he says, distant.

Dean doesn't respond beyond that. Instead he keeps staring up at the sky as Roman sits upright, hugging his knees close to him and trying to ignore the noise of other people's lives around him.

"Can you believe we're here? Like, we're seniors now. That's wild," Dean continues, not really sounding all that present himself. "I can't believe we're here."

Roman just hums in agreement, starts picking at the grass without thinking about it, clawing at the green beneath them, hands idly destructing.

"You know what I think we should do?" Dean asks, suddenly going off in another direction and sitting up and looking Roman right in the eye. "We should get out of here."

"What do you mean? Like, wag school?" It is lunchtime, Roman reasons to himself. He has English last. He hasn't enjoyed a single lesson of English since year nine.

"Nah man. Better. Take a car and drive. Leave entirely. No one here gives a fuck about us. No one at school will miss us," Dean says, laying back down.

"I guess," Roman says after a bit.

"Honestly, not a single fucking thing I've learned this year has been interesting. I just - I don't think I can do it anymore, Roman," Dean admits softly. "It's the same thing every week. The same, boring routine." A pause. "I wanna fucking live, man. This ain't living. There ain't nothing here for us. When was the last time we felt alive?" he asks, voice small.

The words strike a heavy chord in Roman, his stomach twisting and his heart burning, hands tightening in the grass. He has to take a steadying breath before he can even begin to consider replying.

"I can't remember." It's the truth.

"Exactly! We're soulless, dude. What happened to us?" Dean asks.

"We grew up," Roman mutters after a few seconds of silence.

"I guess," Dean replies quietly after a few more seconds. There's so much more that Roman wants to say then - something comforting, something hopeful - but it dies on his tongue, and he swallows the words like a bitter, bitter pill. _We grew up._

He doesn't even know where this rant of Dean's came from. Sure, Roman hates this place, but he hadn't even considered leaving it until now. He feels like Dean didn't anticipate it to turn so deep so quickly. Roman seems to be having that effect a lot lately. He just can't shut his stupid mouth.

"Anyway. I think we should do it," Dean sighs.

As if on some cruel cue the bell rings, and neither of the boys make a move for a solid half minute. Roman knows it's because he's not moving. His whole body feels like stone and everything in him is screaming to just run. Dean has a habit of waiting for him. Always has. 

They finally get up. Roman's bag feels more like the weight of the entire world is in it rather than just a few books.

They go to class. There's nothing else they can do.

Roman thinks about what Dean said a lot on his way home after the final bell had rung. He walks along a path he could probably follow in his sleep, the same path he's walked home along for four years running. Every crack and imperfection in the concrete is imprinted in his brain, every uneven surface and sudden dips he knows of by heart.

He looks around, thinks about how much things have changed. There used to be trees over there, but they cut them all down to build something. That house used to be a dump but some rich family bought it and did it up. That shop used to be a different shop, but the owner had to sell because there wasn't enough business. There's an old broken cross tied to the fence on the side of the road, and the flowers haven't been changed in a year. They used to get changed every few months. Roman still doesn't know what happened there. 

 _Would the world stop working if I never walked down this path again?_ he asks himself, really thinking about it.

He likes to think after all this time of walking, his footprints have engraved themselves into the concrete. He knows they haven't, but sometimes he really isn't so sure.

He grew up on this concrete. He's scraped knees and burned out bike tires on this road. He's run around and played war with other kids in the neighbourhood, most of them their names he's forgotten entirely. So many lost memories here. 

He's still thinking about it hours later in the dead of night, music blaring in his ears and gaze focused blankly on the ceiling, eyes following the constellations of mould he's memorised over the years and years of staring at it. 

For all that he hates this place, he still feels like he's a part of it. The world wouldn't end if he just left, but it's all he's ever known, and he wishes it wasn't. 

* * *

His teacher asks him if he's alright the next morning during form after he had his head down on the table the fourth day in a row. He smiles and says he is. Leaves the room as fast as he can once the bell rings and holds back tears all the way to his next class.

He barely speaks a word the entire day.

Dean's really the only friend who even knows . . . about whatever the hell is going on, but even then there are some things Roman doesn't think he could ever get around to telling Dean. But his friend doesn't say anything either, so Roman guesses he just understands. Just one of those days. 

It's nice. But at the same time, he feels guilty for being like this, for being too awkward to strike up a conversation with his own best friend, for feeling like not talking the entire day. Dean's a talkative person. He talks to other classmates most of the time during the periods Roman has with him. He could be having so much fun with other people, could actually enjoy his schooling life.

Yet he keeps coming back to Roman, keeps choosing the mess of a human being he is compared to everyone else.

Sometimes Roman thinks the only reason he does is because they've been friends for five years. That he's unknowingly guilting him into it. 

At end of the day, Dean finally seems like he's waited long enough. They're sitting in the back of Dean's stepdad's car, in the parking lot of the supermarket after school. This happens sometimes. His mother was forgetful and was always getting Dean or his stepdad to go get stuff, to the point that they, mostly Dean, had just taken over the shopping. They gave Roman a lift home sometimes.

"You've been tired all day. What's up?" Dean asks, after a solid minute of silence after his stepdad had left.

"I'm just. It hasn't been a good week," Roman admits softly, leaning further back in his seat and shrinking in on himself. There's way no he can get out of this now. Still, He has the urge to get out of the car, take his bag and just walk home, get rid of himself from Dean's life so he doesn't have to worry all the time. He doesn't.

"A week?!" Dean exclaims, looking over at him. "Dude, what's up?"

"Fuck if I know," Roman says vaguely, but Dean keeps looking at him, expectant, and he relents with a sigh. "It's just been . . . y'know, one of those days. A few of them. In a row." Dean doesn't say anything, looking lost in thought, and Roman's stupid, stupid mouth keeps talking anyway. "But it's whatever. I'm fine. It'll pass. Nothing I can't deal with. So, yeah. Just gotta wait."

"There'll be better days, right?" Dean says then, leg bouncing frantically. There's a sudden bite to his words that wasn't there before, and Roman feels a physical shift in the mood of the conversation. He shrinks further into his seat, wishing he'd taken his bag and left when it would've seemed like an okay time to.

"Look, I'm not saying it's not true, Roman, but I'm sick of you saying it and then only continuing to suffer. Yeah, you get better days, but they don't stay. You're fucking depressed, Roman. A stupid slogan doesn't change that."

"If I don't say it then no one else is gonna." He feels childish saying it. But he has to. He feels like Dean is missing the point.

"That's true I guess. Still doesn't change my point though." _Why is he being such a dick about it?_

"You don't think I haven't been lying through my teeth this entire time Dean?" Roman's mood snaps, bends into something sharper, a feeling he's more familiar with than he'd like to be. "Cause I have. I fucking know it's bullshit. But fuck if it isn't true," he takes a breath, trying to calm down. "There will be. I believe it. I'll keep saying it because no one else in my fucking life is. There'll be better days."

"Then where are they? 'Cause it feels like there haven't been any in three fucking years," his friend shoots back, louder, angrier, and it immediately cancels out Roman's own temper. 

"Dean . . ." the tension leaves Roman's body, replaced by guilt.

"It's this fucking place, Roman," Dean continues, ignoring the other teen. "It's toxic. It's stressful. It's not helping us. Look what we're fucking dealing with, week in and week out. Who were we before we fucking came here?"

Roman doesn't get a chance to reply. Dean's step-father appears from behind a car, carrying a few bags of groceries in his hands. They fall silent. The question hangs heavy between them, and Roman never once stops thinking about it the entire way home.

* * *

The afternoon passes by with nothing happening. Routine. Roman stays in his room, fucks around on the computer. Briefly emerges for dinner but that's it.

He stares at his schoolbag, considering doing some homework, but he just . . . can't. It's for biology and he just doesn't want to do it. _I'm not gonna need this shit in ten years_ , he thinks. _The only reason it's important is because the teacher told me to do it._

Fuck, now he sounds exactly like Dean. He used to care so much about school, Roman realises dismissively. Now he almost can't even get out of bed some days.

Afraid his mood will drop he diverts his attention to something else, the decision falling on writing.

Inspiration doesn't come. He's got a whole new draft open in front of him but the longer he looks at it the bigger it gets, so he closes it, and then scrolls absently through some of his other drafts.

 _days spent staring at the ceiling, burning, raging, wanting to be more but not knowing how_  
_days spent cradling yourself because no one else will, holding it all back_  
_days spent wanting to destroy yourself, to go to that party, to take that bottle, to take that blunt_  
_days spent, days spent, how many do i even have left?_  
_days flying by, nothings happening, everything's fucked, something's never right, when did we grow up?_

_and why didn't we notice it until it was too late?_

It's something he wrote a couple of nights ago, the first in this now series of bad nights. He thinks it's decent, so he leaves it as is, goes back a few months in his drafts to cringe at some of his older shit, which is fun he guesses. Then something catches his eyes.

 _Dear 2017 me_. Roman blinks in confusion before he taps the draft, reading. A few sentences in he realises this is the thing he wrote near the end of last year, one of those cheesy notes to your future self things. He pauses, unsure if he should be reading it in the middle of the year, but he just does it anyway. He's bored, in a slightly good mood , and there's nothing else to do.

_This year was good, well, it was better than last year. It really was. Shaky start, but you found your feet. It got better. You got through everything you thought you wouldn't. I'm the happiest I've been all year._

He just skims the details about how not so shitty his 2016 was.

_So, year twelve, huh? Big step. Hope the uniforms are comfy. Hope things continue staying good. And if they aren't? You have next year. And the next. And the next. You can get through this. You have so much to look forward to. Breathe. You're still young._

Roman finishes reading the letter, and then sets his phone aside, feeling absolutely nothing, every emotion literally just seeping out of him. Thing aren't staying good . . . in fact, they're probably the worst they've ever been, and he doesn't know what to do about it, and he doesn't feel a single fucking thing anymore.

He's always known there was something wrong with him. Depression, anxiety, those cookie cutter mental illnesses. He's just never thought it was serious enough. He had always thought it was his teenage hormones going wild, his brain deciding how to torment him at random because it could. He either felt not at all or so intensely it scared him whether good or bad.

But that was normal, wasn't it? He's a teenager. He's supposed to feel this way. 

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But whatever the case, nothing feels okay anymore.

But it's only until he's been sitting there for half an hour still feeling nothing that he realises he might just be in real trouble here.

* * *

Waking up is routine, but he still has to fight back tears anyway at the thought of having to spend another day being shitbored at school and feeling like absolute hell at the same time. He gets up anyway. There's nothing else he can do.

He showers. Doesn't eat breakfast. Brushes his teeth. Doesn't recognise his own face in the mirror. And then he's ready.

His mother drives him to school on the way to her work. He's never felt more out of place than he has in this moment, long awkward legs struggling to fit in the space in front of him and arms wrapped around his stomach, back hunched. He doesn't belong here. He takes up too much space. The uniform is choking him, tightening and tightening and he wants to rip it off and just scream.

"Have a good day," his mother says as they pull up to the side of road, turning back to smile at him.

"I will," he lies through his teeth, returning the smile and stepping out of the door. She drives off. He stands for a few seconds. He has to force his feet to move.

_"Who were we before we came here?"_

_Happier_ , Roman thinks as he walks through the back entrance, head down, trying to block out noise and ignore the cold. _Motivated. We were hopeful._

He keeps walking towards his class anyway. There's nothing else he can do.

No one says anything this time when he walks into form room with a blank expression and immediately dumps his bag in the floor, slumping into his seat and keeping his head down. They know. And he's tired of trying to act like he's fine.

He used to talk so much during form, back when everyone was younger and closer as a class, taking on the new stresses of college together. Now he's just a ghost, a presence that doesn't do anything, day after day.

* * *

Classes pass by. They happen. That's all there is to it. The day turns out to be sunny so Roman and Dean meet up at lunch and find a place in the corner of the field. They say nothing at first. Dean lays down on his back and throws an arm over his eyes while Roman stays seated, knees pulled up loosely against his chest as he watches people play rugby on the other side of the field.

"Do you really think we could do it?" he mutters after a while.

"Do what?" Dean pipes up immediately, lifting his head to stare at his friend.

"Leave. Go."

"I mean." Dean says, taking a pause, thinking. "I think we could. We could just hitchhike places, if we were desperate enough," Dean says, sitting up. "Why?"

"Just thinking." It's not really a reason, but Dean seems to get it anyway. He stays sitting for a few more seconds, before he rests calm hand on Roman's shoulder and squeezes it gently, before laying back down.

After a few more minutes, Roman sighs, feeling the air fill his lungs as he leans back too, closing his eyes before his head hits the ground.

* * *

When Roman looks in the mirror, he doesn't recognise himself. 

His eyes have their own shadow, and it's not because of the lighting. He dips his head forward a little and lets the shadows lay over the ones on his skin. 

He looks evil. It's the only thing he can think of when he sees himself like this, is that he looks evil, like a bad person. There's no expression on his face and no more light in his eyes.  

He never even used to be able to see his own face in this mirror, too short to when he was younger. Now his tall, lanky frame feels like it fills up too much space, like his body takes up too much room in general. 

He notices sleep crust around his eyes. Roman pulls back for a second, tries to rub some feeling other than nothing into his own skin, rubs so hard it almost hurts because that's the only feeling he knows. He only looks worse when he lifts his head back up, eyes watering and face red, brown eyes expressionless. 

Maybe he really is just a bad person.

Roman turns away before he breaks the mirror. He's tried to before, but managed to stop himself. He doesn't know how he'd even be able to explain that to his parents.

 _"I don't feel like a person anymore and the stranger in the mirror was staring at me"_ seems like a good contender, but then they'd think he's crazy _. "I got angry"_ sounds better, but angry at what? He gets angry a lot these days, which is his second default after being empty, and it's something his family likes to point out a lot, even if it's joking. But he's never broken anything. He doesn't want them to think he's losing control of himself, doesn't want to lose their already minimal support. 

He slowly comes back to himself, looking away from the mirror abruptly and taking a deep breath. He gets in the shower, even if he only ends up just standing there, letting the water wash over him while he feels like he isn't even there anymore. There's nothing else he can do.

* * *

Sunday night finds him alone in his room, but that's nothing new. He's finally gotten inspiration for something, meaning to only write a little bit, but after a certain point things just started to pour out, like they usually do.

 _Buzz_. He blinks, looking over at his phone to see a text message, from Dean.

 _Im outside ur window rn can u let me in the house_  
_?_

"What?" Roman says in disbelief, moving from his spot and opening his window as quietly as he can. Sure enough, Dean's just standing awkwardly a few metres away from his window, staring down at his phone.

He looks up as Roman just looks at him.

"Hey," he smiles. "Wanna help me up?"

"What the hell." He doesn't mean to say it, but that's what comes out anyway. _What the hell is he doing?_

"No?" Dean says awkwardly a few seconds later, his smile fading off slightly. Roman snaps out of it. He leans out and reaches a hand to him, and Dean takes it greatfully, and the both of them manage to get him up and in safely.

"What are you doing here?" Roman does ask as soon as Dean's staring around his room on his bed at twelve am on a school night. He feels like he has a right to ask.

"Felt like being spontaneous," Dean says, smiling, but it never really reaches his eyes. "We're teenagers dude. We haven't gone on _one_ middle of the night escapade. Not a single one. What's with that?"

"I don't know," Roman says. "It's just, not really us."

"Who said? I think we should go somewhere."

"Dean, it's a school night."

"All the more reason! This could be a story for the ages, dude."

Dean seems hyper. The kind of hyper that he usually is when he's trying to cheer Roman up. But there's no way he could've known Roman was sad just before. He's always sad, but still.

He doesn't know what to say even though he really wants to say something, to try and help him. But the silence goes on too long, and Dean eventually avoids his eye contact.

"My uh. Steven's fighting with Mom again," he admits quietly, playing with the hem of his old battered leather jacket, a birthday gift from his father before he'd left him and his mother a few years ago. It's in bad condition, but Dean doesn't care, and he wears it every chance he gets since he's finally big enough to fit it.

Roman's heart clenches as he watches his friend, who's usually the centre of the attention every chance he gets, the one who's always making everyone laugh and have a good time look and sound so down.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Roman asks just as quietly, copying Dean's own words from all the other times that their positions have been reversed.

He takes a few seconds before he looks up, his face a little red and tears softly rimming his eyes. He looks like a scared little kid, even with the beginnings of stubble on his face he stubbornly refuses to shave off. He just shakes his head, but Roman doesn't miss his lip quiver. Without thinking, Roman reaches out, and pulls Dean towards him.

And he just goes with it, sagging against Roman's pull and ending up with his cheek pressed to Roman chest, and Roman's chin on the top of his messy hair. His breathing picks up.

"Thanks." Dean mumbles out after a minute of their breaths filling up the air in the room, neither as even as they would like it to be. Roman feels like he hadn't done anything compared to what Dean does and has done for him. He just tightens his grip around Dean's shoulders, and softly presses his mouth to Dean's head.

In response, Dean curls up tighter to Roman's side and takes a deep breath, exhaling it shakily. The tears come slowly. Roman can feel them dampening the front of his shirt after a while, and Dean's occasional sniffles fill the room

"I don't suppose a stupid slogan will be of help right now?" Roman asks. Dean laughs quietly, evens out his breathing slowly before pulling away. His eyes are ringed red now. He takes a moment to wipe everything off his face, and then another deep breath, and then he smiles. "Think I need to do that more often," he jokes. He's still not okay. Roman knows it's just cover up humour, but he doesn't have the heart to call his friend out on it.

"My window's open every night then."

Dean seems to think for a second, biting the inside of his lip. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"Sweet, then. I think we should get out of here now."

Roman laughs, he doesn't know why, and he gets up to slip on something warmer, and then the two teens disappear out of the window and into the night.

* * *

"Do you think we could actually get out of here one day?"

Roman pauses his eating, hand stopping midair as he looks over at Dean. They haven't said much since they arrived here, ordering some shitty fast food at a 24-hour place and occupying a booth in the corner.

"I think so?" Roman says. "If we have enough money we could move out of town eventually."

"I don't mean here, I mean like . . . _here_."

Roman's brow furrows. "What do you mean _here_?"

"Where we are now."

It's still not much of an explanation, but Roman suddenly gets it.

"Oh," he says, not sure what to actually say.

"I . . . I think we could. Maybe I'm just naive but. I feel like things could get better. Maybe things won't hurt so much when we're older." Dean doesn't look up the entire time, eyes downcast and hands fiddling with a wrapper.

Roman's reminded again of just how young he looks like this, and suddenly it hits him just how fucking alone they are here, how vulnerable and scared they are. He wonders how it became like this. 

"Like I say, right?" he tries. "Better days? We could get out of this."

"Today isn't that day though," Dean mumbles. "We're just kids. We can't leave. Not for a few years at least."

"Well, hey," Roman says. "Maybe we don't need days then. Maybe we just need moments."

Dean doesn't reply, but he does look up at Roman with a weird look on his face, half smiling, half sad.

"What?" Roman asks.

"Nothing, it's just . . . you're unbelievable," Dean shakes his head, sighing as he slumps backwards in the seat.

"What do you mean?"

"You could probably have the worst day of your life and you'd still come running to help me. Why?"

"Because it's different when it's you dude. Why would I do nothing when I know there's something I could do to help?" Roman says. Dean doesn't respond, looks lost in deep thought, and Roman's stupid mouth keeps running. 

"What I wanna know is why you keep coming back to me, man." It's half joking. He tries to make it sound joking. He really does. But Dean's expression changes completely after he finishes saying it, and the taste of regret fills his mouth bitterly. 

"Okay, what do you mean by that, Roman?" he asks, leaning forward again. He's nearly completely still, something Roman's not used to and it kinda scares him. 

"You're a good guy, Dean. You could probably tag along with anyone from any of your classes and have more fun with them than me. You're funny. You talk."

"Yeah, but anyone isn't _you,"_ Dean says, he almost sounds frustrated. "Those people don't know me. They weren't there for me when Dad left. They weren't there for me when I broke down crying in class multiple times in year eight. They just stared at me. No one but you has been there for me, Roman."

Roman has to blink back tears. He can't even reply to that, doesn't even want to. He knows there's some stuff left unsaid there, but for as much as Dean is a talker, he's 

"I'm glad I ended up with you though," Dean adds. "I mean it. I wouldn't want anyone else."

They go a few more minutes without saying anything. A group of drunk people come in and order but don't look in their direction and then they're gone as soon as they came.

"I'm . . . I'm glad I have you too," Roman says softly, and he doesn't think Dean hears him at first

* * *

"Dean, we are not stealing a shopping trolley."

Of course they'd go from admitting their deepest feeling to this, nearly immediately.  _No one other than Dean,_ Roman thinks, staring at his friend. 

"But it's not stealing if we're going to return it," Dean points out, only sounding more excited. "Please? Push me down the hill?"

Roman's mouth falls open in disbelief and he turns his head to look at the road on the hill behind them. It's way, way too steep to be considered safe. "Are you crazy?!"

"Don't you know me?" Dean says softly, smirking. "Crazy is my middle name. Cmon, let's do this!"

Roman opens his mouth to continue his point, but stops himself. That was the whole point of sneaking out, wasn't it? To do crazy shit?

Also, Dean looks the most alive he has in weeks, a stark contrast to the Dean he'd seen in his room earlier, and when they were eating. Roman sighs, and relents. _Just this once._ "Fine, but I am _not_ pushing you down the hill. I don't like it when you're dead."

"I'll never die, don't worry," Dean says as he hops into the trolley awkwardly. "I'm immortal," he yells out once he's seated, grinning stupidly wide at Roman as he does.

"Whatever," Roman rolls his eyes, starting to push Dean along.

"It's true! We're immortal, baby!" Dean then yells out, and Roman looks around, scared people will hear them, then he remembers they're probably the only ones here.

"We're never gonna die!" Dean tips his head back, and smiles again, closing his eyes and looking so lost in the moment it makes Roman's heart skip a beat.

And for that moment, under the dark sky, and surrounded by nothing but the sickly glow of old street lamps, Roman almost believes it.

* * *

"Spin me around!" And Roman does, in the middle of the parking lot they weren't supposed to be in, Roman does. He smiles and spins Dean around the best he can in the shitty shopping trolley, laughing as Dean does so too.

 _We really are alive_ , he thinks in that moment, feeling . . . feeling something spreading through his veins like a slow venom. It's something like the cold adrenaline of a panic attack but, softer, warmer. He doesn't know what it is. It doesn't hurt. 

They aren't supposed to be here, but they are.

He remembers how sometimes, he feels like he isn't supposed to be alive at all . . .  but, he _is_.

Dizzy, he stops. Dean looks absolutely giddy, tipping his head back to just smile at Roman while he catches his breath, but then their eyes lock for too long, and the smiles fade off.

It's suddenly cold.

"Thanks," Dean says then, voice soft.

"For what?"

"For . . . being here," his eyes avoid Roman's now. "Being my friend. For staying alive. I . . . I know it's hard."

There are a millions things Roman could've said to Dean over the years. A million things that try to force their way out of his mouth, that he'd fought back because he was afraid they would all just come out in a scream. 

Sometimes, he let them out. Only sometimes. He always regretted it. So most times, he lied.

He lied so much because he thought if he did, it would become the truth.

And, maybe in this moment only, maybe never again, but at least in this moment . . . it is the truth. He just smiles back softly at Dean, trying to pretending there aren't any tears in his eyes.

"It's okay."

 


End file.
